Snowflakes in Seattle

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

OLIVE

I was standing in Wyatt Parker’s bedroom.

My middle school diary never would have believed it.

I hardly believed it. This morning, I’d been headed to Maamutaa Island to meet up with Pear. Now I was stripping off layers in Wyatt’s bedroom while he fixed me dinner.

Wyatt Parker.

I’d loved living in Seattle. I had many happy memories with his family and mine in the city, and in this tiny houseboat on the big lake. Seeing him again felt like coming home.

I’d spent years daydreaming about his face, his laugh, his gentleness. Boys, including my brother, Benedict, were loud and everywhere . Wyatt had always been chill. Mature beyond his years.

He had the same kind eyes. Same grin and mop of curls. Same sweet awkwardness that had made me blush at age ten. He was the same, yet more . Definitely more attractive. All man, even in those snowflake pajama pants.

I folded my coat, laid it on the bench at the foot of the bed, and toed off my Stan Smiths. Flexing my toes in my socks, I blew out a breath. Wyatt’s unfiltered reaction to seeing me hadn’t helped my dormant crush. Holy fuck , he had said. I knew the feeling. I shared the feeling. Out loud.

Don’t think, just do. My mantra. And sometimes it got me in trouble.

This night should be interesting.

I had a quick, whispered check in with Pear, who was on a layover in Qatar and losing her mind. She’d been stuck on the flight next to the guy who’d fired her a few months back. He’d been Mr. Calm, Collected, and Comely, a creative, broody type, until he’d lether go. Then he’d become the devil incarnate. At least my bestie wasn’t all alone, and had been upgraded to first class. Even terrible company was better with free drinks, right? Hopefully the man was headed to a different island entirely.

I heeded my pained stomach and made my way back to the kitchen where Wyatt waited, plate in hand. His smile looked genuine. But then his eyes dropped. I saw the moment he registered the changes in my body—intentional and natural changes both. He blinked rapidly, trying to tear his gaze from my chest. Unsuccessfully.

I suppressed a smile. The snug sweater showed off my frame nicely. I’d liked my body before implants. I loved my body now. Apparently, he did, too. He met my gaze again, cheeks ferociously red.

I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. “Done staring, old man? What would you tell your parents if I starved to death in your kitchen?”

Wyatt sputtered. “Old man? I’m, like, eight years older than you. Not even forty.”

“Yet eating meatloaf in your slippers,” I shrugged.

His mouth dropped open. “Oh, hell no. My meatloaf is amazing. It’s French .” He gestured to the slice of French meatloaf on my plate and stalked toward the living room, throwing a look over his shoulder. “Come on then.”

I followed, strangely giddy. Back in the living room, I could see that my arrival had interrupted his dinner. His barely touched plate rested on the coffee table in front of the couch. The TV was set to local news.

“Hey, that lady was on my flight,” I exclaimed.

“That lady swore she saw Santa and his reindeer,” Wyatt informed me, a bemused smile on his lips as he dropped onto the couch. I did the same, tucking myself into the opposite corner and accepting the plate he handed me. “Did you see Santa, too?”

I shoveled a bite of potatoes into my mouth before replying. God, they were creamy and delicious, like he’d put a pound of butter in there. “No, but…”

His brows jumped. He waited patiently while I ate a few more bites. And sampled his fancy meatloaf. “Wow,” I moaned. It had sautéed vegetables in it. And sausage, if I wasn’t mistaken.

Wyatt grinned. The sight of his scruffy face full of joy over something small sent my stomach tumbling.

He watched, arms spread across his corner of the couch, his plate untouched. “Better,” he said, when I set my plate down. Comment, not question. As if he’d taken the starvation teasing seriously. “Santa?” he prompted. “I’m dying to know what you saw in the sky today, little Olive.”

I silently glowed at the nickname. I inspected my nails, bright pink to match my favorite swimsuit, as I tried to recall details from the tumultuous flight. “I don’t know what I saw. Thick green fog that…sparkled.”

I’d thought the shrieking lady was nuts. I still thought so. But I’d been checking the news and Reddit threads in the hours that had followed. There was still no satisfying explanation for the impact that banked our plane or what the fog could be.

“Wouldn’t that be some shit?”

I brought my eyes back to Wyatt’s. His expression looked almost hopeful.

“What?”

“If Christmas magic was real. Imagine if we didn’t have to let the magic go at a certain age.”

My heart squeezed. I knew what he meant. A light in our souls extinguished the day we stopped believing in magic. Some days, I’d trade all the freedom and clarity of adulthood for a fraction of that light back.

“That would be some shit,” I agreed.

“Santa or no, you’re here,” he said. “Somehow.”

Somehow . “At least until I can get another flight.”

He nodded, brows furrowing. Picking up his plate, he said, “Catch me up. Blake Builds, your brother, Arizona. You.”

For the next hour, we talked about family and work. Vertex was killing it in Seattle. They had three cranes in the sky, a massive achievement for any construction company, but especially for a modest-sized company like theirs.

I told him about my role at Blake and what I still wanted to accomplish with it.

“What you’re doing is exactly what I want for Vertex,” Wyatt complained. “An actual diversity inclusion program and someone to run it.”

“I’ll share the program I’ve put together. I created a database of disadvantaged subs, too. You can blank mine out and start your own.”

Wyatt’s expression was incredulous. “You’d share your program with me? It’s not proprietary?”

I shrugged. “We’re not direct competitors. Besides, sharing a few documents is the least I can do in exchange for the room and board. And meatloaf.”

He smiled, and I melted inside. His grin lit up the dark room. Warmed my soul. Wyatt had always made me happy. Always.

He leaned toward me, his knee and knuckles inching closer. My heart reacted with a flying leap.

“Is that an apology for calling me an old man?”

I snorted. “Absolutely not. I guess we’ll just be old together.”

The smile slid off his face. After a pause, he leaned back and shook his head as if trying to fight off the thought clinging there.

Gathering the plates in one hand, he stood and threw me a burning look. “I have to run out before the stores close. Do you have everything you need?”

I nodded, regretting the sudden tension. One accidental mention of the future and the easy switch had flipped. I reached out a hand, not really wanting to touch him, just needing to get his attention. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean?—”

“I know you didn’t, little Olive.” He grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I won’t be gone long. My home is yours. Take anything you need.”

My throat tightened. He was a soothing balm after a crazy day. “I’m grateful,” I said, staring up at him. His grip was warm. Strong.

“I know that, too.”

After a final squeeze and a smile intent on stopping my heart, he dropped my hand and made his way to the kitchen. I waited a long moment before rising from the couch and following. In the kitchen, Wyatt’s broad back faced me, his outline visible through his white tee as he scraped the plates clean.

“Let me,” I offered. “You've got errands to run.”

He shook his head without turning. I loved his curls. Still. “You’re my guest. Let me take care of you.”

I dropped a hand on my hip. “Wyatt Parker, get the hell out of here and let me do the damn dishes.”

He turned, brows bunched in surprise.

“That’s right,” I said with a smug smile. “I got bossy. Get used to it, old man.”